I find myself locked and loaded,
in my bed, leaning,
with charged-up, sweet emotions,
about where they (these feelings) can possibly go.
Will they travel a few more boring, lonely byways to find you?
To get to you?
Will they trip and scale your rocky, musical mountain?
Can they wade through our duly cryptic prose?
Will they brush aside my ever-familiar?
And free-fall, out into nothing?
Will they help me leave this world for a while?
Or will they spider, and twist, only to bend back and retreat?
Will they hold me hostage?
And, do tell, for how long?
Will they continue to haunt me with
what if, what if?
And if so,
what then, what then?
How will it end?
Alone, I keep the wolves at bay,
they flip and toss me, impeding my sleep.
They start and stop, a thousand times over.
Will I continue to gently weep?
While they render me speechless, yet also bursting with words,
more words than I can hold, spilling,
Can I be happy, without you around?
And will they cast their dewy magic, their saturating truth?
Is that the way that this works?
Is that the way…that it goes?
Oh, locked and loaded is all wrong.
“Locked” is not how I feel.
“Loaded” isn’t quite right.
And though it isn’t exactly clear,
“wrong” is not what’s happening here.